


He Calls Himself Pride

by JessicaPendragon



Series: Solas Positivity Week [1]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon Divergence, Gen, pre-game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-14
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-04-09 06:15:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4337036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessicaPendragon/pseuds/JessicaPendragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of death, someone else is born.</p><p>For Solas Positivity Week, Day One: Solas on his own</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Calls Himself Pride

The trickster tricked. Oh, how the Dalish would bend over themselves in petulant laughter to know of this.

Fen’Harel wakes with face pressed into the sand and blood smeared across cheek from the cut on his lip. The prison is silent, the Tevinter magister long gone with his prize. The wolf knew he could not be completely trusted, but desperation and arrogance can easily cloud the mind and hide what is so obvious to open, clear eyes.

It was a calculated risk, one that did not add up in his favor. He finds himself outmatched and it is not the first time to realize he is simply not the elf he was before. This false world has broken him, broken everything, and it might suffer again for his lack of foresight. 

Fen’Harel wipes the blood from his face, red lips pushing back in a snarl, as he stalks from the underground and back into the light.

He travels for days, weeks, catching the scent of his prey in dreams and with a wet nose pressed to the dirt. Every day his strength grows greater, but so also does his worry and guilt. They gnaw at him, teeth on bare bone. He has spent the last seven years trying to escape this future and return what was lost and it all cannot be ruined because of this prideful mistake.

As four paws climb atop another hill, the scent becomes lost amongst thousands of others. When he crests the summit, eyes peer down into the dark at a strong temple overflowing with humans in shining armor and others in long robes. Something important is happening here, here where the scent ends. Corypheus is close. Fen’Harel shakes himself and on two feet begins to descend.

A flash of green, blinding, brilliant, shoots up into the sky from the center of the structure. A few seconds later the noise of a hundred lightning strikes bursts against his ears as a wave of energy flings him back into the snow and rocks. 

He can only lay there for a few muted moments before he struggles back to his feet. Ancient eyes gaze upon the results of his sins.

The temple is gone, the land now a smoldering crater black and burning. Everything around it is much the same, dead and ash or gone completely. And the sky. The sky is shattered, bleeding bolts of green streaks raining down on the land below. He can taste the power used to create a hole in the world on his tongue, feel it like a noose pulling tight. 

It was the orb.

Legs kick up snow as he races down the mountainside. Soon there will be others to come and investigate such an explosion, and he must find it before they arrive. There is no way the infernal mage could have survived such force, but the orb should still be intact. 

When he reaches the area he searches and searches, spiraling inwards towards where it is obvious the explosion originated. He cannot feel the pull of the foci, nor smell its scent on the scorched wind anywhere nearby. His motions become more frantic, eyes darting and mouth moving in silent pleas, but there is nothing here but fire, burnt bodies and a heavy, acrid malaise filling lungs.

It is gone. 

Fen’Harel crashes back to the ground, uncaring as rocks slice into his knees. He grips the still burning ground between his trembling fingers but does not feel the sting. A scream sunders the air, a howl of loss and pain, guilt and sorrow. He has walked a lonely path for centuries, but never until this moment has he felt so desperately alone. He was supposed to help his people, protect them,  _save_  them. Everything he was, everyone he cared about, he destroyed to bring about great change and this is what will be his legacy? A hollow world and broken sky?

Voices reach his ears. He thinks about remaining and kneeling before the mercy of a swift ax for they would no doubt blame whoever could survive such a disaster. But old habits are hard to break, and the wolf is nothing if not a selfish survivor. He limps from the ruins, tears turning everything into a blur as he escapes. He thinks about running and never stopping until something pops and sizzles from the crater behind.

Fen’Harel crouches behind rock and watches a breach in the Veil form. There is something beyond, something glowing and dark things squirming, but only one object punches through to this domain. He cannot see it clearly, but is a woman, an elf it seems, but he can hardly concentrate on her features beyond that. It is the burning light on her hand that draws his attention. He can feel his magic again, struggling and confused, but it is there branded in her palm and coursing through her veins. The magic of the orb is alive yet.

She collapses as soldiers approach on wary legs. They stand there for a few moments, contemplating their choices, before they none so gracefully lift her up and drag her from the smoking pit. Fen’Harel must follow them, find her, get back what was stolen. He  _must_  set this right.

He follows the shemlen at a distance, a black wolf hiding in shadows and the turbulent night. They take the she-elf to a small town now overrun with refugees and soldiers, their voices rising like heavy incense full of chaos and fear. Fen’Harel finds a secluded hideaway to watch as she is taken inside a sturdy building with thick doors. He needs to get inside, but she might not last until the others are fast asleep, or they might kill her outright for what she bears. There must be another way.

An idea strikes him as he morphs into his mortal form. They will be looking for guidance to deal with these strange events, and no one knows more about the power in her palm than him. He can feel it pulsing even from here, growing wilder every moment the hole in the sky grows larger. He can be their guide, an adviser of the unknown and misunderstood, if he plays this right, but he must be careful.

Magic slides over his body, taking away the fitted finery of his youth and replacing them with simple wool, fur and leather. He runs a hand across his scalp and long brown hair, twisted together with jewels sewn through the strands, falls away until nothing remains. He can no longer be Fen’Harel, the rebel god of Arlathan.

He is no longer worthy to wear the name once worshiped in whispers and sung with praises. He has betrayed all those who lifted him up and must earn such a title once again. He will become something else, someone else, until he sets things right and escapes from this nightmare so selfishly created.

Pride.

It is was brought about their downfall, his shame. He will call himself pride as a daily reminder that he cannot be what he once was, that this world deserves better than what he has wrought. 

Fen’Harel takes his last breath and it is Solas that exhales. He walks out of the darkness and into the light of Haven, a staff in hand and a promise in heart. He will not fail this time, no matter the cost.


End file.
